Hank
The shop feels like a tomb.
The crew is scattered around the main floor—some sitting on workbenches, others leaning against bikes, a few pacing. Nobody's talking. The silence is suffocating.
I'm standing at my desk in the office, staring at my phone.
At the photo Brennan sent.
Sam on that bed. Unconscious. Zip-tied. Helpless.
You tried and failed yet again. Should have learned when I took her mother.
My hands are shaking.
I set the phone down before I throw it across the room.
Bobbie's voice cuts through the silence from the doorway. "Hank. We need a plan."
"I know."
"The crew's waiting for direction."
"I know."
My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to, and Bobbie doesn't flinch. He just watches me, his expression unreadable.
"We'll find her," he says quietly.
"How?
